The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux

“Put me down,” she whispered. “I’m too heavy.”

His glance was quelling and she bit her lip, motionless in his grip. The kerchief was squeezed in his wide palm and he shook it out, droplets shimmering in the setting sun. Folding it in upon itself, he wiped her face with the damp cloth, and she felt the nausea subside.

“Is she all right?” It was Isabelle behind them, and Jenny murmured words of reassurance.

“Get us a cup for water,” Shay said curtly, and Isabelle responded with a breathless agreement. In moments she was back, and again water ran from the pitcher pump, this time filling a china mug from the kitchen. Shay held it to Jenny’s lips and she drank, swallowing great gulps, until he tilted it away from her.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’ll be sick if you drink it too fast.”

“I’m sick anyway,” she muttered, her embarrassment rising as she took stock of her position. “Let me down now.”

“In a bit,” he told her. “Take the cup, Isabelle,” he said firmly, and then, both arms encircling Jenny again, he lifted her high against his chest and walked to the barn. She glanced over his shoulder to see Isabelle near the watering trough, cup in hand, a look of fear bringing her soft features into bold detail.

“Where are we going?” His stride was long, his breathing deep, and Jenny felt apprehension nudging her. The man was beyond anger, way past the point of reasonable behavior, and she was being toted like a…Her mind was blank. His arms held her with care, firmly but without undue force. His face was drawn in lines of concern, but an underlying fury drove him beyond his normal conduct.

Shay was a man to be reckoned with, and she was about to face him, head-to-head. And in the barn, it seemed. He entered the wide doorway and halted, his head turning from one side to the other, as though he sought a place to conduct this conversation.

“This’ll do,” he said shortly, dropping her to her feet at the bottom of the ladder that led to the hay loft. “Climb,” he told her.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Climb? You want me to climb into the loft?”

He nodded. “I thought I was pretty clear on that.”

The warmth of his body penetrated her clothing and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. “Can’t we talk right here? Or back on the porch?”

“Climb.” The single word left her no leeway, no room for argument, and she wondered at her own compliance as she obeyed his command. Jenny Pennington was not a pushover. She’d run a plantation, managed to keep her head above water and been a prideful woman for the past several years. Now she found herself bending to the will of a man who had literally scooped her up, mopped her face with a sopping wet kerchief, then ordered her to climb a ladder into the hayloft.

Her feet found the square rungs in rapid procession, and her wobbling legs propelled her over the edge into a deep pile of fresh hay. He was close behind, rising to his feet and glaring down at her as if she were a recalcitrant child.

“Everything all right up there?” Noah was below, peering upward and Shay growled a reply. “Yes, sir. I can see you got things under control, Mr. Shay.” Noah’s words faded as he left the barn, and Shay turned back to Jenny. His mouth twisted in an exasperated grimace, and he dropped down beside her.

“Damn, you sure know how to get me riled.”

“Because I felt sick?” she asked. “Or because I didn’t tell you my sad story?”

“Neither,” he told her. “No, both, maybe. You were green around the gills, and I was afraid you’d faint dead away on me. And then I knew I’d have to fight to make you tell me what I need to know, and the porch wasn’t the place for that kind of a battle.”

She looked around the loft, only the open window allowing enough light for her to see him clearly. “And this is?”

“It’ll do.” He leaned beside her on one elbow. “Now, tell me what Marshall was talking about. He said a big man had hurt you.”

The confusion of Shay’s trip to the barn and the climbing to the loft had chased the images from her mind, and for that she was grateful. Perhaps, with Shay here, and surrounded by the safety of this private place, she could remember that day without falling prey to the heart-clenching horror she’d lived through.

And there was to be no retreat. Shay’s grim features made that clear. Her mouth worked as she searched for the words, and her speech was halting.

“Yes, he saw a big man,” she began, her gaze turning inward as she remembered Marshall’s wide, terror-stricken eyes. “He watched a brute in a blue uniform take me inside the house, while he and Isabelle were kept in the yard. And later he saw me crying.” She clenched her hands tightly, oblivious to the long fingers that untangled her own, and matched their palms in a warm embrace.

“What did he do to you?” His voice was low, rasping and she looked up to see darkness where so lately amusement and kindness had danced in the depths of his eyes.

Her words were careful, precise. “I don’t think you want to know.”

His dark head nodded slowly. “You may be right. But I need to know. I need to hear it from you.” He bent closer. “And maybe you need to tell me. Maybe speaking the words aloud will chase the memory from your mind.”

The trembling began in her limbs, or perhaps it had never ceased, she thought, remembering the climb up the ladder. Shivers chased the length of her spine and gooseflesh turned her arms cold. She opened her mouth and felt the urge to scream, to let loose the shame, to shout her anger aloud. As if Shay were the culprit, she turned her fury in his direction.

“He made me strip and lay on the floor, right in the parlor. And then he used me like I suppose a man uses a whore…until I bled. He laughed at my tears, and told me I was lucky, that he’d saved up for weeks till he found a woman pretty enough to—” Her mouth could not speak the word, the ultimately filthy phrase he’d used to describe his act.

“And I was the lucky one he’d chosen.” The bitterness she could no longer contain put a vile connotation on the word, and she bowed her head as grief manifested itself. The sobs were heart-rending, the tears profuse, and her wail of sorrow was muffled against his shirt. Shay lifted her on his lap, sitting upright against a post, and held her as he would a child, his arms offering comfort, his whispered words soothing her anguish.

She buried her face in the center of his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, and drew her knees up. Shay’s warmth surrounded her, his face resting against her hair, his hands moving against her back, then rubbing her arm. He lifted his hand to her head, his fingers combing through the loosened locks of hair, and he buried his fist in the length of silken tresses.

“Jenny.” That such soft, whispering comfort could come from the depths of a man like Shay was beyond her comprehension, and yet his whisper of her name conveyed an emotion too deep for words to express. Her name vibrated from the firm cushion of his chest, sounding against her ear as if it would enfold her in its syllables. He rocked her in his arms, swallowing her anger in his sorrow, smothering her fury with a blanket of tenderness. And mourning with her for the loss of her dignity, the trampling of her pride and the violation of her innocence.

Not that she’d been virginal, but that before that day she’d been treated with respect and love. Until the day she gave herself in trade for the safety of her family. Until she’d been called upon to purchase the plantation in a way she’d never imagined would be required of her.

The night grew cool, and the owl that made its nest in the rafters of the loft flew on wide wings to the window opening. Its mournful sound echoed as it took flight into the night air, and Jenny gathered herself, lifting her head, reaching for the handkerchief she kept in her apron pocket.

She’d cried copious tears, Shay’s shirt soaking them up, and no doubt dampening his chest. He’d found her another kerchief in his pocket, and that, too, had been the recipient of more moisture than she’d thought possible. But blowing her nose was a private business, better done with her own white handkerchief. Sitting upright now on his thighs, she did so, aware of Shay’s soft chuckle.

“Feel better?” he asked dryly.

“Does the word cleansed have any meaning right now?” she asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap and looking into his eyes.

His nod was barely visible and she sighed. “I’ve never talked about it before, not even to Isabelle. She knew, of course. And so did Noah, and the boys, I’m sure, but no one ever mentioned it. I suppose they understood that I wanted to forget that day.” She touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his scar.

“I don’t suppose we ever really forget though, do we? When we’re scarred beyond repair, I mean.” She felt his jaw harden beneath her hand and she cupped his chin. “Do you blame me, Shay? Did I do the right thing? Or should I have watched while they burned my home and left the lot of us standing while they rode off?”

He was quiet, the muscles of his jaw clenching, and she felt his anger radiate from the depths of his being. Yet when he spoke, his words were soft, reasonable and soothing to her soul. “You did what you had to, Jenny. What we all do when the time comes to make a choice. Whether it causes pain or shame or sorrow, sometimes we’re called on to make a sacrifice that scars the soul. And then we have to live with it.”

“What happened soiled me,” she murmured. “Made me not fit for a decent man. I doubt I’ll ever feel…”

His hand covered her mouth, a rough, immediate response to her words that took her breath. “Don’t speak such blasphemy,” he growled. “You’re a fine woman, a good woman. His actions didn’t place a curse on you. But trust me sweetheart—the man will burn in hell for what he did that day. And if it were possible, I’d send him there myself.”

She uttered a sound of disbelief. “I wouldn’t want you to, Shay. Murder is never the right answer.”

He was quiet, barely breathing, and then he spoke. “Sometimes it’s the only answer.”

She was chilled by his reply, frightened by the bleak tone of his voice. And then he lifted her from his lap, stood and walked to the window. He was a shadow against the starlight, a tall, gaunt reminder that there are hidden depths in every man that don’t bear revealing, and Jenny hugged her knees to her chest, mourning the loss of his embrace.

She hadn’t looked him in the eye, had blushed beneath his scrutiny at the breakfast table. Shay’s hands gripped the handles of the cultivator and held it against the earth. Ahead of him, the mule leaned forward in her traces, and the combined force of his weight and her strength dug the three curved prongs into the ground, turning the hard dirt to tillable soil. His muscles bulged as he held the big implement steady, veering neither right nor left, staying between the rows of corn.

Behind him, Joseph followed, rake in hand, hilling the stalks, leaving the furrows deeper than the ridged rows. It was a hard job, and an hour at a time was enough to make a man rue the need for it. Noah stood at the far end of the row, waiting his turn behind the mule, and Shay was willing to give it up to him.

“I don’t know how you managed it by yourself before your sons were big enough to help with this,” he muttered, drawing his gloves off and tucking them into his back pocket.

“We all do what we have to,” Noah told him, his grin wide and white. “Can’t say it’s my favorite way to spend a morning.” He nodded at the broad haunches of the mule. “Not much to look at, the way I see it.” Shay caught his meaning. It brought a laugh from his depths and he rejoiced at the moment of amusement. There hadn’t been much to smile about thus far today.

Jenny had left the loft, silently and without his notice, as he stood at the window last night. Her slender form had caught his eye, her feet flying as she ran to the house, and he’d turned away from his dark thoughts, disgusted that he’d allowed her to flee, unheeded. The mattress had been hard and unyielding beneath his body throughout the long night, as he thought of the words she had spoken, the tears she’d shed against his chest. And most of all he remembered the feel of her curves, the warmth of her slender form as she clung to him, curled against his eager flesh, secure in his arms.

Breakfast had been brief, Jenny leaving the table to work with a bread pan full of risen dough at the buffet. She’d refused to look up when he bid her good day, only mumbled a reply. Marshall, oblivious to his mother’s mood, had followed Shay to the barn, and then to the cornfield.

Now he sat beneath tall bushes in the hedgerow, in charge of the water jars and carefully tending his collection of tin soldiers. On his stomach, smack dab in the center of a quilt Shay had spread for him, he kicked his feet in the air, laughing to himself as his miniature army marched across the corduroy patches. His golden hair was dark with perspiration at the temples, and sweat glistened on his nose as he looked up at Shay’s approach.

“Mr. Shay,” he called out. “Come see my soldiers.” Rising to his knees, he motioned to the area beside him. “You wanta sit with me for a while?” His smile was bright and he reached to find a jar of water. “It’s still pretty cool. Mama said to cover it with part of the quilt, and I thought it would make it warmer, but she said it would help keep it cool.” His brow furrowed as his small hands enclosed the jar, offering it to Shay. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

Shay unscrewed the lid and tilted the jar to his mouth, swallowing the sweet spring water, making no attempt to halt the cooling drops that seeped down his chin. They stained his shirt, dark blots penetrating the fabric, and he looked down, reminded of the hot tears Jenny had shed on this selfsame shirt last night.

“Your mama knows more than we do, I think,” he told the boy. “Women have a knack of picking up on things. Now, we men,” he said wisely, exaggerating the words for Marshall’s benefit, “we just have to do the best we can, and pay attention to what we’re told.”

“You, too, Mr. Shay? Do you have to listen to my mama?” Marshall cocked his head to one side and frowned at the idea.

“Yeah,” Shay said. “I listen to whatever your mama tells me, son.” It seemed the boy had forgotten the moments from the evening before, his qualms buried beneath the ready smile and generous spirit he exhibited.

“I sure like you,” Marshall offered offhandedly. “I bet my mama does, too.”

Shay slanted him a grin, uncaring that his scar drew up, twisting his mouth. “You think so?” He thought a minute. “Maybe so, Marsh. Maybe so.” Noah was at the end of the row, Joseph close behind. Another two swipes through the cornfield and he’d be switching places again. Just about time for a nap, he figured.

His sharp gaze scanned the fields surrounding them, searched the hedgerow briefly, and then settled again on the boy. “You be sure to wake me if anyone comes along, Marsh. I’m gonna close my eyes for a few minutes.”

Marshall looked up, already absorbed in his soldiers, and nodded distractedly. “I’ll keep an eye out, Mr. Shay.” He bent to pick up a figure, adjusted the angle of its weapon, and sent Shay another look. “Even if my mama comes, should I wake you up?”

Shay watched him from beneath his hat brim, and chuckled, a low sound that seemed to please the boy. “Especially if your mama comes by, son. You be sure and wake me.”

“Ess-pesh-ly,” Marshall repeated, emphasizing the sounds, enjoying the flavor of the word. “Ess-pesh-ly.”

“Our Caleb’s got him a woman,” Isabelle said, her air nonchalant, her words prideful.

Jenny looked up from her sewing, holding the needle in midair. “Someone from close by? Do I know her?” If Caleb had found a bride, it would mean allotting him land of his own to till and work. And one less hand to tend the fields here, she thought.

“Remember Sarah and Eli? The pair of them got married soon as they could, after—” Isabelle halted, weighing her words. “I still don’t feel good about how some of our people left here, Jen. Like they didn’t have it pretty good with you and Mr. Carl.”

“They weren’t free, Isabelle. I can’t blame them for leaving. I might have done the same.” She looked out the window to where the corn was almost as high as the pasture fencing. “Working your own land is different than sweating over someone else’s crop.”

“Well, if they’d hung around, you’d have give ’em a piece to work for theirselves,” Isabelle told her. “Now they’re doing shares with Doc Gibson, over south of here. And not likin’ it much.”

“Get back to Caleb’s woman,” Jenny said impatiently. “Is she kin to Sarah and Eli?”

“Their daughter. More girl than woman, I guess. Almost seventeen years old. She’s been showin’ up here every few days, makin’ eyes at my boy like he’s the cock of the walk.” Isabelle’s smile was tender as she ceased the rise and fall of the dasher. Churning was tedious work and talking made it palatable, but Isabelle tended to break her regular rhythm when she got caught up in storytelling.

“Caleb’s a handsome man,” Jenny agreed readily. “Tall and strong, and probably more than ready for a place of his own.”

Isabelle slanted a glance across the kitchen, to where Jenny sat near the window. Taking advantage of sunlight was a double delight, she figured. It made the task of sewing more enjoyable to gaze from the window between times. Catching a glimpse of Marshall now and then as he followed Shay’s tall figure around the place gave her a feeling of contentment that rested easy on her mind.

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